Sweet Little Thing

I touch the mirror. It shatters. Blood is on the floor. I see myself. Nothing matters. I don’t care anymore. I look and see half my face gone and in the background plays a mournful song, but the bird does not sing in his cage. I think it might be going through a silent faze. I pet its feathers gently hoping it will sing. I wonder why it’s being such a shy little thing. Come on little bird speak to me. Sing something soft with a sweet melody. Don’t mind the red water on my dress. I know I must look such a mess, but please, sweet little thing, wont you, for me, sing?